


Garbage Disposal

by orphan_account



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, after all of these millions of years i finally return to my roots of the launchshipping tag, archer has the vocab of a robot: pompous and proper, launchshipping, rated m for murder/graphic gore/profanity, thATS NOT HOW YOU FLIRT, the profanity is all on protons part. archer is innocent. let archer say fuck., two dudes commit murder and then have a talk about feelings i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Archer and Proton bond over a corpse.





	Garbage Disposal

Archer is the pedestal from which Team Rocket stands. Only one with a key diligence can uphold the crumbles of the organization in his hands, for it has been long abandoned by its maker, and has been entrusted to him for reparation. It's a burden, but one he welcomes. Though in guise of searching for his predecessor, in truth, he holds no desire to pass the throne to an abdicated King. He possesses competence where the King fell. His natural intelligence completes the appropriateness for the job.

Proton is the hand and mouth of Team Rocket. The magnitude of his offenses matters not as long as he gets a paycheck. It's a dog-eat-dog world, and if sacrifices must be made, than what better method than at his hands? He was sandpapered into what he is today--rough as his hardships and forever conscious to the unforgiving. He was given his role of hand and mouth for his compliance to impossible demands and his skill of dexterity. 

What better two men to silence prying eyes, than them? 

Let's paint a picture: A young, ambitious journalist investigator dreams of reverence to be received, and turns his attentions to the infamous Team Rocket--thinking coverages and disclosures of their private information will bring him fame and fortune. And so he dons a disguise and slips under the noses of incompetent grunts. Yet in the end, his plots bear no fruit, for a much more significant gear than the miserable cogs detects his deception (because this gear's eye is skilled in the fundamentals of disguises, you see)--and promptly the gear informs his superior. The pedestal. 

With the threat of a leak of information, surely, there is only a single option in Archer's mind: elimination. Vexed by the ineptitude of the grunts, Archer took it upon himself to devise this investigator's undoing. A lead had been laid as bait. A folder containing false information was set up to be taken, speaking of some overly-glorified shenanigans to be held in underground train tunnels, that surely would bring about horrible--interesting--news. No investigator could resist. 

Here lies the product of solution: a corpse of a very ambitious and very unfortunate journalist investigator. Nothing had been waiting for him in that abandoned train tunnel, except for his demise taking the shape of two men. 

Proton is knelt beside the corpse, equipped with a surgical knife and a fluidity in motion as he carves out the man's innards, for this is a task he's performed time and time again. It's a refined process. Organs and tissues and bones are arranged in neat, labelled containers to deliver to Rocket's scientific sector at a later occasion. They're always greedy for test subjects (and if rejected, a piece or part can sell for good money)

Archer does not tamper with the body. He is here for supervision on Proton's actions and confirmation of his success. Nothing more. He stays leant against the old brick wall of the tunnel in a spot he deems the cleanest of them all. His jacket is to be cleansed _mercilessly_ afterwards. The miasma of an abandoned, rusting train tunnel along with an open fresh corpse sickens him; he must keep a white handkerchief pressed to his mouth and nose to withstand it. 

Proton is faring quite well throughout, as if this were a natural habitat of sorts. He whistles a merry tune, timed to each slash and jab of the knife. It is almost as if he'd break into song at any given moment with the liveliness of his actions. He takes great enjoyment out of the dirty work of Rocket--well, someone has to, Archer supposes. 

"Hey, look," Proton calls with the mirth of a chuckle, procuring a medium organ within his gloved hand, displaying it in the air. "It's a liver!" 

Archer lowers the handkerchief unceremoniously. "Repulsive," is all he says to reply. (What's more repulsive, however, is the fact he's actually becoming accustomed to the air's stench.) 

"Mighty tasty, actually. Grilled in onion and garlic, slapped between slices of ciabatta, with some fig vinaigrette slathered on." A pause. "Actually, now I know what I'm having for dinner tonight."

"I can only hope to surmise you don't mean a human's liver in such a scenario."

"Wouldn't dream of it. The folks down in the lab would kill me, I'd think." 

"Are you suggesting the only factor preventing you from eating this man's liver is the laboratory's need for samples?" 

Proton looks to Archer with the honest expression of conviction. "Yes." A shift in demeanor occurs in the room, until Proton then grins roguishly and disclaims: "I'm only fucking with you, but god, that look on your face is priceless." 

True to his claims, Archer had indeed donned an appalled look in the moment--which for Archer, is quite the amount of emotion. He quickly dismisses the notion and returns to his default of inexpression. "Of course you were. To think you'd stoop to that behavior--though it isn't a farfetched accusation, mind you." 

Proton either overlooks or consciously ignores the disguised insult. "But I still stand by the fact that nonhuman liver is indeed delicious." 

"Whatever serves you well, then." He's lost interest in the topic, now. "…You should quit procrastinating and complete your task." 

"I'm not procrastinating. Maybe it would go by quicker if I… had some help?" His voice is faulty innocence. Assistance would be much appreciated. He doubts Archer would easily oblige, though. 

"No." 

Ah, there it is. "What, pretty boy too scared of getting his hands dirty?" He expected no other answer. 

"Precisely. And that's why you were assigned the duty instead. In the least, _you_ have fun rummaging through a corpse's innards." 

"And it's pretty damn fun, too. Sure you don't wanna join?" His tone leads into one that's meant to be enticing. It isn't. He waggles an unidentified body part, as if that will strengthen his persuasion. It doesn't. 

"Positive." 

"At least be a peach and pass me that bone saw over there?" he asks, batting his eyelashes in a saccharine fashion. When Archer does relent and removes himself from the wall, he adds: "It's in the duffel bag." 

"Of course, where else would it be?" His monotonousness makes it seem to be an honest question, but Proton is well accustomed to his quips, and knows he's nothing short of sarcastic. He procures the saw, dropping it next to the man who asked for it firstly. 

Proton jolts when it clatters next to him. "My god, watch where you're throwing that thing around. You could've taken my foot off." 

"That's highly improbable."

"It could've totally sliced me and that's that. You wouldn't wanna hurt me, right?" 

"Depends on the day, in truth."

Proton bites his tongue to withhold a chuckle, and largely fails. "Well, I'll add you to the list of people who I need to sleep with an eye open around." 

"You've _always_ been the list of people of whom I must protect myself from, _awake_." The faintest smile adorns his face. "Top priority." 

"You better believe it, pretty boy. One false move and _bam_ , you got a switchblade in your thoracic diaphragm." He subconsciously demonstrates by driving his scalpel into the victim's ribs. 

Archer stares at the display. "Are you certain those from the laboratory won't reprimand you for damaging that organ?" 

He waves the scalpel dismissively. "There's this saying my mama used to say: 'You get what you get and you don't throw a fit'." 

"Wise words." He crouches next to the other executive. 

"Yeah, if only she could use her wisdom to pay her own damn electric bills." 

Archer removes his eyes from the corpse to glance to Proton. "If I recall correctly, you've informed me that you've stopped sending her money." 

Proton shrugs, now exceedingly focused on his work. "Yeah, well. Shit happens. Rocket pays well, I don't really mind." 

"If you cared not, you wouldn't complain." 

Proton sneers. "Hey, watch it. It just… popped up in the conversation, okay? Like I said, shit happens. Her boyfriend turned out to be a jackass and left her for no apparent reason. She's out of work again. Her landlord's strict. Y'know, life stuff." Each word swelters in venom. "And y'know, it's not like she _deserved_ that shit. She's a good woman, but life's a bitch like that. Sometimes I gotta wonder that if we could actually live together she'd be better off, but we can't because of all the danger in my package deal."

"Is that what truly bothers you?"

"What?" 

"That you're burdened with guilt." 

"I am _not_ \--"

"It's horrendously apparent, Lance. I've studied psychology." 

"Yeah, well you can take your psychology and shove it up your ass. And don't call me Lance on the job."

"You're incredibly defensive." 

Proton rolls his eyes. "You're not even one to talk. Every time I bring up something with you, you're even worse." 

"Examples." 

"Like, I've suggested so many times you need to see a psychologist or psychiatrist--" 

"Preposterous. I'm perfectly healthy, there's no need. Even so, that's virtually impossible given my standing in a criminal organization."

"Ding-dong, there we go." He pauses, voice muttering. "And perfectly healthy, my _ass_." 

"You certainly do love the word 'ass'." It's a shamefully poor attempt to turn attention away from himself.

"It's not just the word I love, but you knew that." Before Archer can respond, Proton's shoving the saw in his hands. "Make yourself useful and hold this for a second." He continues to rearrange bones on the brick floor, before labelling each piece numerically with a marker and stuffing each into a airlock bag accordingly. 

"Be glad I was wearing gloves before you ungracefully forced this filthy device in my hands."

"Yeah, yeah, pretty boy doesn't like getting his hands dirty, I know." 

"I absolutely cannot fathom how you withstand it, much less enjoy it." 

"It's an acquired thing, I guess." It would appear he's simmered down from his earlier sensitivity. A shift in topic is a quality distraction.

Now, when Archer questions him further, he bears no ill intent to rile him further. There's simply a concern to be quelled. "Are you… absolutely certain you're faring well?" 

"Yeah, totally." It's dismissive and possesses no certainty at all.

"Proton." 

" _What_? I said I'm fine." 

"You are not." 

"Damn, neither are you. Off my case." The irritation returns. "Ignoring you now, gotta work."

"Proton." 

There's no response. Proton digs his knife into the body aggressively. He's making an undignified mess. Surely the scientists will be dissatisfied with his performance. 

" _Lance_."

"Oh, goddammit-- _What_?"

"I…" He's unaccustomed to insisting on other's emotional wellbeing--much less Proton's, and much less when being glared at. How does one word a genuine consolation? He stares for a moment. Proton visually softens under the eyes. 

"Look, Apollo, I know you mean well with this, but you're socially inept as _fuck_ and can't tactfully have a feelings talk with people without it sounding like accusations." He pauses. "Or maybe I can't handle other's concern because maybe it's not something I like dealing with. Hint: It really isn't." He sighs, returning to his dissections with his famed dexterity. "But I'm a big boy and can handle my own problems myself. I don't need help, if that's what you've implied… And I sound like you now." 

"I never implied I would interfere. I just thought it wise to not bottle up your hardships--because, frankly, you have been." 

"Hypocrite." Yet there's no venom in the word. 

"I know." 

"At least you admit to being self-aware. But you do need to talk to someone. Your obsessive perfectionism and endless irrational fears are going to be the death of you. Like, I've literally lost count of the times you've woken me up at some ungodly hour of the night because you're freaking out over… _something_."

"I'm managing. I'm alive."

"Are you? You live off coffee and whiskey so that automatically unchecks you from the 'alive' category. God forbid the days you mix your bean juice and your alcohol." 

Archer snorts, as if it were funny. It isn't, but he can twist it into such. "And likewise for yourself. Except you prefer granola bars and gin."

"Granola bars are fucking delicious, first of all. And second, they provide more sustenance than an espresso. Plus, unlike _some people_ , I know how to cook." He's reverted back to playful, insulting jabs, only now he's taken a softer, less boisterous tone than initially.

"A fine cook, too, might I add. I especially enjoy when you make paella." 

"Is that a hint? I can't wait to see the day where you learn how to _cook for yourself_." 

Archer has leant closer, his head supported on Proton's shoulder, watching as he works. A generally uncharacteristic advancement, but not an unwelcome one. Proton won't incriminate him for it. It's a rare enough occurrence as it is. "How could I possibly learn when you're so insistent I don't touch the oven?" 

"Well, you sure as hell aren't touching my oven, because I don't want my apartment burning down. But, by all means, go fucking crazy with your own." A laugh. "I'll give you credit for the fact you can differentiate a ladle from a spoon, though." 

"That's not an achievement. They're extremely different."

"That they are." Proton quiets as he arrives at the end of his work. An extensive silence is to follow, before something unprecedented. "Sorry." 

"Whatever are you apologizing for?" 

"For being a dick," he grumbles, peeling off his gloves and forcefully flicking them into a bag meant for disposal. He retrieves a fresh pair from the duffel and tugs them on. "You were trying to be caring for once and I, y'know." 

"I'll admit I was in the wrong for being so persistent." He can take responsibility for his actions as well. 

"Yeah, but I mean…" He trails off, gesturing vaguely in the air. "We've been dancing around these topics for ages now." The containers are neatly arranged into the duffel, and the bag with excess is tossed over his shoulder. 

"Discussing them in a broken tunnel over a corpse isn't the best time and place, either." Archer takes the duffel without prompt. It's polite. 

"No shit, but I still feel fucking awful for it." Having the after-guilt of arguments is not something Proton experiences regularly, nor is he usually considerate--but that's the byproduct of default internalization. "But I'm… glad you mentioned it, I guess. At least I know you care." Then, he mutters: "That makes someone." 

"And I, in turn, appreciate your insistency with my own issues. But you must understand the difficulty that complements it." 

"Yeah, 'course." Certainly, he understands Archer's avoidance of seeking help--he's in a rather incapable position, and though verbally admitting, it's without doubt he struggles with acceptance of problems inwardly. Don't they both? 

"But, as you've said of me, I value your concerns." 

"Good…" And then, more assured: "Good." 

They begin to exit the tunnel from the inconspicuous entrance, where their equally inconspicuous means of transportation is parked. It's the midst of night and they move under the cover of shadows. 

"Arianna is probably pissed we're taking so long." 

"It was meticulous work. She can't blame us." 

"She's gonna wonder if we got lost on the way back or something. Or think we were making out on the job again--like last time." He's completely serious. 

Archer can't help but grin. "That was a fine outing, wouldn't you say?"

Proton laughs. "Yeah--And that's the story we're going with. If she's upset we're late, our alibi is we parked somewhere on the roadside in the middle of abso-fucking-lutely nowhere and just. Made out. We can't let her know we were talking about _feelings_. We won't hear the end of it." 

"Agreed." He unlocks the sleek, black car and opens the trunk for Proton to dump the baggage in. He effortlessly slides into the driver's seat. Proton hops into the passenger, already filing through cd's from the glove compartment for possible options. "Though, it can't be considered just an alibi if it happens in actuality." There's a sly tone in his voice.

"Oh my fucking _god_ , Apollo," Proton says with a snicker. 

Archer glances to him. "Put on your seatbelt. You aren't an animal."

Proton blinks. "We just committed murder and you're worried about a seatbelt?" 

"Seatbelt. Now." 

"Alright, alright, shit." The seatbelt clicks into place. "Happy?" 

Archer leans over the peck a kiss to Proton's cheek. "Very." 

In the dead of the night, a car zooms down the emptied road, leaving behind an abandoned train tunnel.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they parked in the middle of nowhere and made out.
> 
> me, googling organ names that i already know but i wanna be sure i know what im talking about: ok so a diaphragm is indeed an organ in your ribs but why the FUCK is there a sex protection named after it


End file.
